


Shed

by DidjaMissMe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF!Jim, Cage, Comforting!Sherlock, Hurt!Moriarty, Like Lot of Angst, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Trapped, trigger - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:51:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidjaMissMe/pseuds/DidjaMissMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has secrets. Yet he /owns/ secrecy. He even has a few of his one, branded into his skin (some by his own hand). But when Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty get trapped during their rooftop meeting, secrets aren't the only thing that will be shed...</p><p>TW. Angst. Worth the read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Shed

"Thank you." Moriarty uttered those unfamiliar words, smiled as his hand raised, gun to his mouth.  Sherlock noticed just in the nick of time,  realisation dawning on his features,  backing away from the inevitable gunshot. Holmes involuntary winced as a gunshot rang out, sound still echoing and ringing in his ears. Yet, the man in front of him wasn’t dead. He wasn’t bleeding out, with a sadistic smile plastered on his face, lying cold on the ground below… The ground below. Where the gun lay. Sherlock looked at the gun, the trajectory of its fall and math equations running through his head -  showing the bullet came from the East, strategically placed to knock the gun out of Moriarty’s hands -  and he made eye contact with the criminal, moments away from suicide, only to be stopped,  a slight confusion furrowed in his brow. **  
**

 

The ground below. Why hadn’t he noticed it immediately? A chalked out section, a slight differentiation in the flooring, a square around the consultations. It was a door. They were standing on a trapped door.

This time, a different shot rang out, piercing the air.  A sickening creak, and a band as the floor below gave way, the vertigo feeling leaving the two men numb as they fell into the darkness.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock was quick to react.

A quick analysis already happened, file stored away in his "Mind Palace". 2 meters by 2 meters, square. Common concrete, seemingly endless, if not for the small barred prison door on the northern side. A cage, adorned with nothing - wait, not nothing. A small deck of cards, shuffled about in the center of the "room". Sherlock presumed Moriarty to have done the same analysis, after all  We are alike, you  and I. So, once more, Sherlock was quick to react.

Yet sooner than Moriarty could faze out of the drop-induced daze, Sherlock rammed the smaller man up onto the wall, fingers strategically placed, crushing his windpipe. The strength of the hit knocked stars into his vision, but Moriarty rolled it off with his dizziness, an eye roll adding to the facade.

"What game are you playing, Moriarty? Switching it up, are we?" The detective snarled, obviously angry with the sudden turn of events. He had it all planned out - ahead of Moriarty by a mile. Yet he wasn't planning on this. His prepared plan was forced to change.

Moriarty himself tried not to panic.  This wasn't going well... not at all... what the hell was happening... who would do this... dammit his head hurt... and his hand hurt, the blast of the gun leaving him a dull ache in his wrist. Yet he knew he needed to take control. Yet another one of his compulsions. Control. Superiority. Dominance. To make up for all the submissive years...  Great. You're losing it. Again.

"Well, if you're so interested in The Game, Sher, care to join me for one?" Sherlock thought he was in control. So why shouldn't he be? After all, acting was a forte in his symphony. Moriarty gestured to the small pile of cards, strewn about the floor.

With a sigh, Holmes shook his head, and recited off the facts - like he presumed was what this madman wanted. "From the quantity of cards one can deduce half the deck to be gone, although those faced up show it to be all diamonds and hearts, clubs and spades missing. The design proves to be an early make - early but common. The damage done to said deck gives the image of use during an extended period of time."

Sherlock Holmes stood standing.

Moriarty always found him a fascinating creature.

"Perhaps you didn't read between the lines...  Sit. Down. " A thunderous rumble came from above them, perfectly timed with Moriarty's demand. Hesitantly, the detective moved, uncharacteristically sitting cross-legged on the floor. The timing of the above noise was lucky - it gave Moriarty a sense of control, a sense of craved superiority, of needed power.

Though he had no idea in hell what was going on.

"Well  somebody get Lockie a 'nice try' sticker. Your deduction skills have dulled - unlike your common sense." Moriarty hinted in his patented sing song voice. "Two suits - two suited men. One a weak, pathetic heart - the other a sharp brilliant diamond." He emphasized the word brilliant in his sing song voice.

His monologue was interrupted by a baritone scoff. "Think that highly of yourself?"

Moriarty found himself bewildered. Sherlock thought he was the diamond. Thought he was clean to the cut, hard boiled, shining in the light, worth something - no no  no. That won't do at all.  He was the heart. A weak, frantically beating heart, doing everything he can to stay alive. Instead Moriarty dropped the funny voice, along with the funny business.

"They're alike. We're alike, both you and I. Red, red with all the blood shed and lies fed." The soft whisper turned into a louder, angry accusation. "Don't pretend its not true, Sherlock," he spat, "You know it’s true. You've done it all, you've hurt people. Good people, Sherry. You made them cry, you've made them bleed, you simply  are repulsing, aren't you?" Moriarty stood, towering over the man on the ground. "Molly? You remember. You absolutely ruined her Christmas, didn't you Grinch? Or Lestrade? You're just the unwanted mutt of a puppy, scrambling for attention, just to be kicked away with cold cases. Don't give me that look! You know its true!  You know its all your fault! ...What about this? What about - " Moriarty's high and low voiced accusation suddenly dropped in dynamic, and tempo, to a soft whisper, a soft arrow aimed to pierce the heart.

"John?"

And yet, the weak minded Heart failed to see, how a simple arrow failed to pierce an indestructible Diamond.

"No." Sherlock said.

"Excuse you?"

"No. You say I'm like you, we're similar - we are not. I am nothing like you. I'm not the repulsive, annoying psycho killing for attention. Yes, I'm idiosyncratic. So are you. Yes, I'm keen, cunning, sharp-minded. So are you. But the difference between you and I, Moriarty," the name spat with such venom, as Sherlock stood up, taking back dominance of the conversation, slowly backing the criminal up against the wall, "I have friends. Real friends. People who actually care about me. People who will see past my flaws, and quirks, and still accept me.  Unlike you . You won't be accepted - not in the shadows you hide in, not in the mafiatic web you built, not even in death. You are utterly alone, and you deserve. Every. Moment. Of it." Sherlock had grabbed the collar of his jacket, effectively pinning Moriarty.

Moriarty was back against the wall, Sherlock overshadowing the smaller man. He would have been able to see the reaction of the familiar words, how they affected the good-for-nothing criminal, if he hadn't told himself that same phrase, night after night, cut after cut, murder after murder...

You are nothing.

You are worthless.

You are completely and utterly alone, just the way you should be.

Just the way you like it.

Funny, it doesn't sound quite as convincing.

Instead, he focused on another weakening emotion. focused on anger, rather than angst. A scowl embedded into his facial features, mad that Sherlock so easily turned the mental affliction on him.

"What, does that anger you? Make you quake with ' petty human emotions' that I turned your own game back on you? For that is your plan, isn't it? Of course it was. To get me trapped in a place, the only escape to be my Mind Palace, to burn that down, make me break - 'burn the heart out' of the heart suit." He shook Moriarty for emphasis, head banging on the thick cement wall. "Well I. Won't. Break. Not by you, you pathetic, sneaking scum.”

Sherlock let him go with an emphasis and a shove to the floor. He wouldn't succumb to the other man's ways. He couldn't. He couldn't break. Turning around he fixed his suit jacket, the tug seeming to end the bitching and bullying 'conversation'. A low chuckle, maniacal, and filled with... What was that? Anger? Irony? Fear?

"By the Queen - Sherry, how stupid can you be?!" Moriarty yelled. Sherlock stood to face the man, fear nipping at him, upon seeing the state of that simply wicked smile. "I," said the young one, voice innocent and childlike, a hint of malice edging his tone. "Have absolutely nothing to do with our situation."

Shit. Moriarty, you creep, what the hell are you doing? Giving away that secret? Your chance of control, the little treat to hang over Holmes head? Oh... he knew why. Sherlock had gotten under his skin - even if the detective has yet to figure it out for himself. He simply wanted to return the favor. Get in his head, freak him out, shake him up.

And his plan worked. Sherlocks eyes widened - just a fraction - as he tried to take in what just happened. It had to be the Moriarty. Moriarty, the spider, and his complex web of lies, and blackmail, and crime...If not the consulting criminal, if not Moriarty, who? Why? He hated not knowing - he hated going into a game not knowing the rules. Hated not having any ammo. He most likely didn't know the captors, or at least deleted them from his Mind Palace, nor their motive, their aim... It was too much not knowing. Too much not good. Sherlocks knees buckled as he fell to the ground, Mind Palace squirming with confusion.

"B-bu-but if not you-" he stuttered.

"No fucking idea." Moriarty said lazily with a shrug. "and that must kill you, doesn't it?" Fake concern and a helluva lot of sarcasm oozed out of the sentence. "You don't know where, or how, but the thing that worries you most," Moriarty squatted down next to the dumbfounded detective.

****  
"...Is that you... are going to have to work... with me... if you want to get out alive." He whispered into the other’s ear. "Lets get started, shall we?"   


 

* * *

_** Chapter 2: Clothes are Shed ** _

_** "Your wrist - hyperextended, from the backfire of the gun shot. You're in pain." Sherlock noted, much to Moriarty's lack of content. "Let me see." ** _

_** "What? No!" Moriarty was getting defensive. It was nothing. He's been in worse pain before. And he couldn't let Sherlock see...see  ** _ ** them. _No no, Sherlock wouldn't care - no one cares, especially when it comes to the low life lying little twat of a criminal - but still. Sherlock, as much as Moriarty would never admit, is a good man. Hes human, he would know. Know what was going  on, and Moriarty couldn't handle the rejection of his enemy, the rejection, the disgust that would form on the others face, the scowl as Sherlock would push him away, the exasperated sigh at Moriarty's lack of skill to_ just finish it off already... **

_** "Moriarty, we are working together whether you like it or not, just let me set it -" ** _

_** "I said  ** _ no! ** _" He yelled, clutching his wrist closer to his body._**

**_"Can I just-" Sherlock moved closer, reaching for the damaged wrist._ **

**_And for the moment of brief contact, skin to well-tailored suit, Moriarty changed. He wasn't Moriarty, hard boiled criminal, he was James, and he was in pain. But in that flash of a second, where the face scrunched up in pain, such utter pain, Sherlock knew there was more damage done than a hyperextension_ **

 

**_"...Moriarty?"_ **


	2. Clothes are Shed

"I can't do this!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up, his restless pace across the 2 meters picking up speed.

"Can't do what, Lockie?" Moriarty asked with mock sympathy, cocking his head and looking up at the tall man.

"I thought I told you not to call me that." He said through gritted teeth, anxiety building up in him. He had shed of his coat and scarf, folded them up and placed in the corner, yet the hour spent perfecting the folds proved OCD antics were not the vent for the stress. So he resorted to pacing and complaining.

"Well, somebody didn't say please. Rather me call you Sexy?" The criminal, casually leaning against the wall, smiled.

"Dammit, Moriarty! This isn't a time for jokes!" His pace quickened even more, his long strides taking up the width of the room, causing him to spend more time turning, than actually pacing.

"It's not a joke - you are quite the sexy beast. I mean, John totally has the hots for you so it must be true, not to mention th-" Sherlock visibly winced at the mention of his blogger. Moriarty's plan to get under Sherlock’s skin proved successful. Sherlock wanted out, not for his own well being, as much as he wanted John. He was prepared 13 different ways of losing John, but this was not mentally prepared for - he couldn't stand this. And just like that - you make the deduction you aren't wanted. Another day, another disappointment, eh Psycho?

"Creep." Sherlock muttered under his breath. Moriarty didn't even register the insult, locking up the depression to focus on the task at hand. "Let's start from the beginning - What do we know?"

"Sherrie, we've been over this already. And frankly, I find it quite  booorrring ." Moriarty complained like a child.

"Solid concrete, and by the looks of the door, thick. Very thick. Breaking our way out is futile, entry or exit would most likely come from the door. Exit is key. Key? There's got to be a key. Door locks from the outside - obviously what sort of organization would have a prison different. They probably have off switches on their bombs too. Required a two man or more organization. Possibly a higher power, feeding them demands? If only I could see one of the-"

"Hon, you're rambling again." Moriarty interrupted, checking his hand out of boredom, and stopping the detective’s outer monologue.

"At least I'm doing something." Sherlock not-so-subtly hinted. He continued pacing.

"The only thing you're doing is killing yourself. Not how I wanted either. What a shame." This caught the detective’s attention, who watched Moriarty, yet continued the frantic walking.

With an exaggerated sigh, he continued. "You're right - as much as I hate to say it - We are hostages. And, from my experience at the other end, a good Master isn't a good Host. Wave goodbye to the necessities Sher, and  helloooo to the pain. You tiring yourself will only result in a quicker starvation - and I  don't like the smell of dead body in the morning."

His observation seemed to have an effect on Sherlock, for soon, he stopped.

"But...why?" Sherlock’s whisper was so low the other almost didn't catch it. "Why take us? For what? Who knew about the rooftop meeting? Who would take us? Who would take you? Why both? I thought you were top of the 'chain'! This isn't right! I don't know, and I don't like not knowing! Dammit why won’t they-" He cut off, breathing heavy and hard. Sherlock fell to his knees, trying to regain homeostasis.

"You're undergoing a panic attack." Moriarty simply stated, without even looking at the detective, without care. He crossed his arms, and looked down at the mess before him. "Many hostages do. And with your recent drug addiction, and let's not forget about your past kidnapping - that's how you got into the substance abuse, isn't it? They punched, and they kicked, and they burned, and they thrust in, and out, and in, and out - then they pumped you full of drugs and dropped you by the Thames." He bent down next to his 'colleague'. Bringing up Sherlock's secret past seemed to act like a bucket of ice water - rushing over his features, waking his senses up. Holmes looked up to the other man.

"How did you know? Mycroft didn't tell you, but...?" Memories were flooding back, memories of his week of hell and years of trauma following.

Moriarty shrugged, not giving a definite answer. "Criminal Mastermind, remember? Web full of lies? Now, stand up, breathe, and calm down." Moriarty offered his hand, making the mistake of offering his dominant one.

Yet, he realised his mistake too late. His dominant hand held his trigger finger, and his aching wrist, feeling a fiery pain pulsate with his heart beat, blocking out all other pain - including the itch of the scabs catching on the fabric of his suit.

He was smooth, though, taking it back and sweeping his other hand in to help out a...friend?  Friend my ass. No one ever has, or ever will be your friend, you Freak. But, luck was never on Moriarty's side. The detective, as broken as he may seem, still had the eyes of a hawk.

"I saw that." Sherlock mentioned, opting to ignore the hand placed in front of him. No trust then. As should be.

"Saw what?" Moriarty's witty defenses were failing. Going back to elementary retorts. "Whatever, Sherlock." He said, panicking, moving about in exaggerated gestures as if to thicken the facade.

"You...You called me Sherlock." The detective noted. He slowly approached Moriarty, not hard in such tight quarters. "What's wrong?"

"C'mon Sherrie. You know me Lockie. Everything's wrong, and nothing's wrong. Hey - sounds familiar, doesn't it Sexy? Poor poor Sher, with a poor poor past..." Moriarty was well past the point of panicking now. All those years of secrets and shadows, to lose this easily? To hell with losing.

"An overabundance of nicknames in hopes to make up your previous mistake. A quick move of the conversation, bringing the attention to me. You're panicking, a slight shake in your hands, eyes widening in fear - What are you hiding, Moriarty?"  No, this won't do. No, he can't. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no-

" No! " Moriarty burst, fists clenching at his sides. Damn, that hurt. He unclenched his fists, yet another panic ridden mistake. Sherlock noticed the small movement, head cocking as he deduced.

"Your wrist - hyperextended, from the backfire of the gun shot, that shot the gun out of your hands on the roof. You're in pain." Sherlock noticed, much to Moriarty's lack of content. "Let me see."

"What? No!"Moriarty was getting defensive. It was nothing. He's been in worse pain before. And he couldn't let Sherlock see them. No no, Sherlock wouldn't care - no one cares, especially when it comes to the low life lying little twat of a criminal - but still. Sherlock, as much as Moriarty would never admit, is a good man. He's human, he would know. Know what was going on, and Moriarty couldn't handle the rejection of his enemy, the rejection, accompanied by the disgust that would form on the others face, the scowl as Sherlock would push him away, the exasperated sigh at Moriarty's lack of sill to just  finish it off already...

"We are working together whether you like it or not, just let me see it-"

"I said no!" He yelled, clutching his wrist closer to his body.

"Can I just-" Sherlock moved closer, reaching for the damaged wrist.

And for a moment of brief contact, skin to well tailored suit, the mask dropped. It was quickly brought back up, but in that flash of time, where the face scrunched up in pain - such utter pain - Sherlock knew there was more damage done than a hyperextension.

"... Moriarty ?" 

"Just - Just leave me alone, you freak!" This was so unlike him. This wasn't the consulting criminal, making human bombs, threatening and flirting at the same time - This wasn't Moriarty. This was a man, broken and hurt and scared, backing away from Sherlock - This was James.

Sherlock’s mind was whirring with information, deductions, possibilities, and  what the hell was going on. You could see it - see the gears turning - see the way his eyes would move faster than humanly possible, soaking up every tidbit of informational evidence. James Moriarty couldn't stand it. He felt like he was being judged, scrutinized, again, and he. Didn't. Like. It.

"Oh, will you just stop it!" He exclaimed, his yell echoing off the walls. "You and your stupid deductions, always getting in the damn way! No one cares, Sherlock, No. One. Cares. All you're doing is wasting your own damn time trying to show off! And no one likes a show off! Not Lestrade, not the Yard, not even John! So just stop it! Stop it! Stop... stop... please..." He quieted out, completely collapsing, becoming a broken Heart, clutching a 'broken' wrist, huddled into a protective position on the ground. Tears and pleads to stop streamed from the drastically changed figure, causing Sherlock to stop and try to process all that happened.

And there they stood. Maybe just for a minute. Maybe for a day. Neither knew. One man sobbing, one man stopping.

A broken Heart, and a dulling Diamond.

"James." The baritone was soft, and closer than expected. James looked up, into the eyes Sherlock Holmes, crouching in front of him. He... He called him James. No one called him that. He was Jim Moriarty, cutting edge criminal, idiosyncratic, brilliant, bombing mind - No. No he wasn't. He was just... James. He wasn't Freak, Psycho, Pathetic, Waste, or any other words that haunted his dark mind every dark night. He was James.

"James," the name was soft and filled with surprising concern. "Let me help." And James found himself loosening out of the fetal position, tears stopping their flow, offering his wrist to-

What? No! What was he doing?

He snapped his wrist back, one hand holding the other. No. He didn't need the concern, didn't want any damn pity.

A chuckle, void of any laugh, came from Moriarty.

"Oh, Sherrie, I really got you that time, didn't I?" Moriarty stood back up, ignoring the ache deep within to curl back up and never let go. Sherlock followed in standing.

"What kind of lie is that?" It wasn't really a question.

"Not one! Do you really think I would give away a secret, such as - gasp! - me, having emotions? Puh-lease! Psychopath, remember? I'm disappointed Sher, I really am, I expected so much more. But you are with the angels... I'm telling you - the dark side is much more fun." Moriarty was back. James was locked away.

"You give away plenty of secrets." Moriarty stiffened. "Just like your body language, that tensing in your muscles. If that was, say acting, then you wouldn't be on edge. You 're afraid Moriarty. The way you walk, the way you talk - I can see it. You know I can. Secrets sewn into the threads of your Westwood."

"A well-tailored suit is a secret all in itself, isn't it Holmes?" Moriarty smirked.  Keep it, Freak. Maybe you'll actually do something right.

"You're right." Both men were facing each other, in the middle of the room, as equals. "You custom ordered that suit, like all your others, a facade of money and power. Tailored just to you, a sign to show independence. Yet, you fail to realise the other modifications done. Long sleeves, fitted for a suit, yes," Sherlock began to get excited, completing his deduction rant, the fear in the other man's eyes fueling him for more. "But also fitted slightly longer than normal. Some may wave  it off as a preference, for it does add a dashing look but no no, I know better. You're hiding something. 'Trick up your sleeves' if you will. You're hiding beneath your sleeves Moriarty. Same with the length of your trousers. and buttoned up neckline. You try to hide, but I see right through it."

"...H-h-How... but you couldn't... nobody’s that clever..."

Sherlock laughed. He actually dared to laugh. "I didn't know. But your reaction told me all that I needed to know."

No. Dammit you Freak, look what you have done. Now he's going to want to see them, he's gonna force it out of you, he's going to look at them, and touch them, and then comes the rejection, the anger - do you understand what you're doing? Idiot! That's not right! You're just doing it for attention - you want someone to care! No one cares, no one ever will! Just end it already, if you can slit your wrists, you can slit your throat!

"You...You bastard." James muttered, looking down. He couldn't face Sherlock, knowing that he knows. The rejection on his face, the damn disappointment, or worse, the pity... Tears were threatening to spill, but he bit those back.

Sherlocks smile fell, his tone dropped to a demanding tone. "James."

"No! Never!" he snapped back. He barely had a moments notice before Sherlock lunged at him, dodging the curly haired man, trying to escape. The room seemed to small, far too small. It was claustrophobically small, sucking all the air out, leaving him scrambling for breath in his state of panic.  No no no no nononononono

James’ dodge ended up being futile, for the detective’s long legs and the small room failed to aid the smaller man. He found himself pinned against the wall, one arm held above, legs bound between Sherlocks tight knees, chests pressed up against each other, trapped by the others weight. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the next move. Sherlock took his free hand, reaching for the sleeve of James free left arm, lifting it up, higher and higher, the struggling fought against Sherlock harder and harder.

But Sherlock saw. A glimpse. A peek. But it was enough.

There were fading pink and scarred white cross hatches, aged but never gone. Deep, scarlet horizontal cuts, lining his forearm, scabs broken and bleeding. Small burns, and bruises that seemed to fail at fading, and a long - and frighteningly deeper than any others - vertical slice, working its way up and up and what was that? Was that...  An E ?

Even Sherlock’s mind couldn't work fast enough to complete the maze of lines and pretty patterns adorning James. For the bumping and thumping struggle pushed the cuff back not it's rightful place, and he shoved the tall man off him.

"No!" he screamed, full of rage - this was his dark secret, not for Sherlock! It was his own undoing, his own right to hate himself; he didn't need his enemy seeing his weakness and laughing at it!

"Dammit, Jim! I'm trying to help!" Sherlock growled, the intensity of his plea momentarily stunning the other.

Help?

The stun was enough time for the detective. He knocked James down, opening up his jacket.

James had to admit. Sherlock Holmes, straddling him on the floor, stripping him down -wait, what? No! He was bloody fucking trying to-!

They struggled and they fought, rolling over, wrestling - teeth even lashed out at one point - till finally, Sherlock fucking Holmes got what he fucking wanted. He wanted to see, wanted to know? Well here he fucking was. James Moriarty, shirtless, missing a shoe, belt undone, trousers clinging to stay up on his hips, all flaws flaunted to the world.  No...  He slid down the wall, tucked his knees in tight, curling himself into a ball, hoping to hide. No point in hiding now... No shadows to linger in, no facade to take refuge in... He brought his hands up to his hair, pulling on his locks and moaned low. Hell, it even sounded like a pathetic whimper. He was aware of tears bubbling up behind his eyelids, hiding his face behind his legs, and the blood bubbling up from the scratches and slices and scars reopened from the fight. He moaned again, desperation and failure plaguing his mind.

Sherlock stood dumbfounded. He was unable to draw his eyes away from the map on the other mans body. Much worse than he thought. But he needed to see.

"James... what the hell have you done?"

* * *

**_Chapter 3: Tears Shed_ **

**_"Oh please!" He exclaimed, raising his head from his protective ball. "You don't have to pretend Sherlock! No one cares - I get that, I really do! So why don't you get the fuck away from me, and up yours! Just stop it! Stop trying to be damn helpful! You just feel obliged - society poisoned you. You're supposed to 'care for others', and 'help others'...Well I'm not like others Sherlock bloody Holmes! And since when did you care about what society thought about you? To hell with it all!:"_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you! Wonderful lot you are, no, just you. Yeah you. You sexy beast love your face today just wow...
> 
> Thanks for reading - and hey, chat me up on tumblr! @didja-misme


	3. Tears Shed

­­He remembers.

 

Of course he remembers.

 

Scars aren’t just physical.

 

Each memory will be forever engraved in his brain. Each cut, each punch, each spiteful word, each empty plate and empty looks, each dark and dreary night.

 

He was 13. 13, and alone in every sense of the word. Alone in the house, alone at school – an outcast. He wasn’t quite sure what snapped, or the exact moment he saw the beauty in a pair of scissors – absentmindedly running them across his forearm. The pain,  oh the pain , it hurt so so bad. Worse, pain, heartbreak, pain, blood, pain… But the worst part was – He  knew he deseved it.

 

But the pain had dulled, leaving glory in its wake. God, it felt amazing. It burned beautifully, and it felt so right. It was like a drug – It was his new addiction. And he sat in his aftermath/euphoria, not knowing the deep dark pit he had started digging himself into.

 

* * *

 

It never stopped.

 

The nights were dark and stormy, rain abusing the city around him, his physical, like his mental – dark, stormy, abuse. Regretful nights, spent in a different agony, when he knew what he was doing was wrong, and pledged to himself to stop

 

But it never lasted.

 

Soon his comfort became his drug, his only friend found in a blade, his only joy from the art of drawing blood. His solitude grew, blame put on his peers and their ignorance. He found them boring, easily corruptible, and downright stupid. But deep in his lack-of-a-heart (as so many of them would say, for no ‘psychopath’ could ever house a heart) he knew all blame laid on him.

 

And the guilt would rush back to him, his vent found in cuts and burns, causing more grief – a vicious, bloody, never ending cycle.

 

\---

“Pity.”

 

Experiment gone wrong. It happens to even the best.

 

Bloodshed is what gave him a thrill, he knew that. But he didn’t particularly get the same ‘high’ from this ‘low’. Maybe it was the lack of blood – the death was a drugged drowning. Pity. Perhaps a new experiment would confirm his theories. He was only just getting started.

Yet, he still expected to feel more of a high from the recent news. Carl Powers – well,  he sure had the last laugh. Next time, there would be more bloodshed. A helluva lot more. An explosion of his addiction – hey, explosion sounds nice.

 

But it sure was a pity.

 

* * *

 

It never stopped.

 

From homicides to home wrecking, interrogations to international affairs, he never stopped. And he didn’t want to. This was the one thing he had absolute and utter control over.

 

And that control would not be given without a fight.

 

* * *

 

“Oh my god.”

 

The hushed whisper brought Jim out of his reminisce, and into a state of confusion. The look fell as he saw Sherlocks face. Oh. That’s right. He knows. He’s seen  them . Oh god,  he’s seen them. Another moan escaped his lips, as Jim brought his head back between his legs, curling even tighter into a small, pathetic ball.

 

“J-Jim…” Sherlock, for once in his life was confused. He didn’t understand human nature – even a psychopath. Even though now, Sherlock Holmes has a quivering mess of evidence that James Moriarty is no psychopath.

 

“ Oh shut UP Sherlock!” Jim yelled, annoyed, yet voice strong with anger, muffled through his legs.

 

“James,” Sherlock may not understand humans, but he had an instinct – a horrible feeling, relying on instinct, instead of fact – he had an instinct, and he simply acted on it, against every fiber of his being, “I want to help.”

 

“Puh-lease!” He exclaimed, raising his head from his protective ball. “You don’t have to pretend Sherlock! No one cares – I get that, I really do. So why don’t you get the fuck away from me, and up yours! Just stop it! Stop trying to be damn helpful! You just feel obliged – society poisoned you. You’re supposed to ‘care for others’ and ‘help others’…Well I’m not like others  Sherlock bloody Holmes! And since when did you care about what society thought about you?  To hell with it all!”

 

Society? Society has nothing to do with this. This was bout James. Not Sherlock, not the plan, not Lazurus. Lazurus was upbringing from the dead. And Sherlock, for once in his impassive masked life, was not afraid to show his emotion and his determination to bring the fallen man back up.

 

Get the Heart beating again. For its long gone cold.

 

“…take off your pants.”

 

Jim almost laughed. After his outbreak, that was not the answer he expected. A few blows, physical or mental, sure, but  I don’t strip for Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Sorry, Sher, not my ball team.” He said, stopping the tears from welling up at the sight of Sherlocks eye roll.

 

He’s annoyed. At me. Of course he is, you’re an annoying freak. He has every right to be. Stop your complaining.

 

“Please.” This stopped James. Sherlock, begging? The Diamond was powerful, leveled up, independent. Never should have to stoop so low, as to  beg .

 

“Please, Jim.” Again?  Did Sherlock… just beg, twice?

 

No, this was all messed up.

 

Messed up as you are. It’s all your fault. Your fault. You always mess things up. You destroy lives, mess people up – all for what? You don’t even know. You can’t even stop. Pathetic.  Moriarty’s inner monologue was constantly running, and this sure as hell wouldn’t stop it.

 

“Like hell I will. Fuck off, Sherlock.” The whisper wasn’t as threatening as the criminal had hoped. But, Jim was still sacred. He  hated being judged, out in the open, for Sherlock to see.

 

“As much as I would desire to ‘fuck off’, I really can’t.” He gestured to the small enclosure. “Neither can you.” Moriarty winced, hating the fact there was no escape for him to hide in. “And you know that. You know you aren’t getting out of this, no clever wit can break down a wall. So give up Jim. You’re fighting a losing battle.”

 

Losing a battle, dying in the war.

 

A Diamond has always objectified desire, and radiated its shine. And at that moment, Jim felt its pull. He was reminded, of the past dark nights, crying out for somebody to save him from himself. Somebody to force his hand, force a stop, for he sure as hell wasn’t going to. But when his cries echoed back, the realization of how alone he was breaking his Heart.

 

He always dreamed of a hero.

 

Heroes don’t exist. Even if they did, he sure as hell wouldn’t be worthy of one.

 

So what was the point? Sherlock already knew, might as well let it all go. Take the punishment. Get it over with. Maybe if they got out, he could finally work up the courage and skill to end the hell.

 

With shaking hands, Jim worked on his pants, slipping them down, and standing up to finish the job. He stood up - fought against his weak knees and sudden desire to fall back to the floor and never get up - and held out his arms, a model of his life choices, his past, his present, and future. His face remained impassive, eyes refusing to look at the other man.

 

Happy now?! Look at them. I dare you.

 

 

* * *

 

With the glimpse of the forearm, Sherlock thought he was prepared for his next sighting.

 

He could never be more wrong.

 

James Moriarty stood in a T, vulnerability presented out to Sherlock, eyes cast down, tears held back, in nothing but his surprisingly-red pants. The forearm was a sneak peek, but the full fledged confession of the self infliction was enough to twist Sherlocks stomach in a sickening way.

 

The first that caught his eye was the contrast. Jims body covered in color, right down to the edge where his hem might catch. Obviously, the secrets were meant to be secret – Keep it secret, keep it safe. The next, was the content of the contrast from his pale skin.

 

Red and raised, angry dashes lashed out, often and obvious – simple cuts, by a blade dragged across his thighs, upper arms, abdomen, down to his ankles, up to his neckline -  all with various degrees of healing itself together. Others less frequent, a deep scarlet vertically lining the major veins, looking as if the inflictor hastily stitched them together. Black and blue blotches blotted the empty space – with no indicator on how the bruises came to be.

 

Sherlock hastily approached the other man, as if approaching a new specimen, wary of the results. Jim hated it. He was not a specimen, he was not something to be judged and scrutinized under the consulting detectives eye. He scowled, and opened his mouth to retort a “ back off” , only to have it wiped away from his mind with surprise.

 

Sherlocks violinist fingers were careful, and light as to not cause more harm than need be. His Mind Palace felt as if it were shut down in shock, doors locked and windows barred. He couldn’t contemplate the cuts and carvations in the other man. For once, the great deer-stalker detective was stumped. He needed all his senses – sight of the scars, dry fuzzy taste in his mouth of incompetence, the noise of Jims breath hitching when Sherlock passed over a particulary sensitive spot, the feeling of the scratchy raised scabs – He needed all his senses to prove to himself  This is real.

 

The Diamond cracked as he saw a familiar sight: Dark dots in the inner crook of the elbow, matching the dotted lower legs – memories of a plunging needle racing through his mind, his fingertips slowed by the drug marks, pity and sadness welling up in him, with the thought of someone else going through the pain and withdrawal and  need for more. Tears – actual proof of sentiment – welled up in his eyes, as Sherlock bit his lip to stop their flow.

 

But the next sight was a trigger for Sherlock – mental, and physical. Words carved horribly into the other man, familiar, unfortunate words, some still red and wet, others looked as if permanently branded and burned into the pained skin.

 

Waste.  Some on his arms, easy to reach, easy to read.

 

Pathetic.  Others across his legs, scabs that must have pulled and pained with every step.

 

Annoying.

 

Conceal.

 

Unworthy.

 

Garbage.

 

Sucks.

 

Machine.

 

Raging.

 

Psychopath.

 

F  started low in the hips, angular and pointing up. His hand traced the hard red letter.

 

R  followed suit, pressed close to the past one, raising up across his chest.

 

E with its 3 long branches stretching towards his neck.

 

A was next closest to Jims head, intersecting with the previous.

 

K. The angle of the last letter perfectly lined up with a suit’s neckline, acting as a barrier, a border, made to keep all other scratches and scrapes, burns and bruises, and acts of emotion a hidden act on his skin.

 

Freak. Sherlock knew he was crying, and cursed himself for it. This was his enemy, for Gods sake, he shouldn’t be doing this. And yet – this was someone, not unlike him, who suffered from their differences, whose main choice of emotional vent was out on display for him to see.

 

We’re alike, you and I.

 

Alike, in the aspect of surprise at the next movement.

 

Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock was wrapping his arms around the naked man, burrowing his head into the others shoulder.

 

Sherlock Holmes was hugging James Moriarty.

 

It was wrong. So very very wrong.

 

Yet, James found his shaking hands raising up, and ceasing their tremble as they rested along the back of the suit.

 

And there they stood, crying in each others arms.

 

** Sentiment.   
**


	4. Secrets Shed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dark eyes were filled with something darker, and, after being dolled back up in his Westwood - James Moriarty came back full swing, foreboding and dangerous. No one tricks the Trickster.

His heavy breath pulsed in front of him, fogging in the chill of the night. His pulse was erratic, the sound echoing in his head. It was a cold and wet night, puddles filling the potholes of the back allies, causing him to slip and fall about but  _he had to keep running he had to keep running._ The young boy - 15?16? - was to the point of exhaustion. His muscles shook to the point where they ached, about to give out on him. His lungs were stretching, filling themselves, threatening to burst but never enough air.

He tripped, landing on the hard wet cement below. It stung as it dug into his palms and knees, but his lungs stung worse. Gasping in breaths, he tried to stand again  _to keep running he had to keep running._ His body failed him, falling only to catch himself on his elbows before completely laying on the ground. Everything was shaking, the rain numbing him, lulling him to a sleep. It would be so easy, to fall to the temptation of the blackening vision... Let his eavy eyelids droop... Sleep... to not think, not care, for who knows how long...just to go....The ally never looked more comforting.

Yet he was brought back to reality by a bang - literally. A gunshot rang uncomfortably close. The wee bt of adrenaline left coursed through his veins, long enough for him to stand up and blink away the worrying blur in his vision.  _Keep running keep running -_ nope.

He fell foward with his next step, only to be caught in someones arms.

"Told ya we'd get him." The voice sounded distant, like tunnel vision but with audio. His tears mixed with the rain on his face, failure plaguing his mind. Drug deal gone awry lead him to witness a blackmarket - they saw him as he tried to escape.

But he didn't care anymore. Another shot - a piercing through his leg. Immobilization. so they weren't going to kill him. They were going to add him to their collection hidden in the abandoned crack house.

And Jim couldn't find it in him to care.

* * *

It was dark.

Mentally, and physically.

Low lighting, everything wrapped in a fog, he woke up in a room filled with others of the “collection” - men and women, young and old, knocked into submission by either drugs or violence. He wasn’t sure how long he’s been here - he wasn’t even sure where he was. Falling in and out of consciousness, not sure of the difference between real life and fantasy… looking back, he remembers a conversation. With another man - drug addict, rich, intelligent - The man who he shared riddles, math equations, paradoxes: anything to stop the boredom, and escape this hellhole. In fact, he was in the middle of getting to know this other curlyhaired teenager, when he was dragged away.

They might have broken him, subduing him for a few days (or was it months? He didn't care.), but Jim always found a way to bounce back. And he was furious. Done with this shit. He would rather go back to his rundown empty house, change his clothes, and  _dammit he was craving some goddamn tea. And he would get his bloody tea._ So when shoved down to his knees in front of 6 other people, something in his snapped. His last shred of humanity was gone.

Rage blindedly controlled him, and he was  _done with submission done with this shit done with these low life scum done done done done done..._ done. He was...done. He looked back, to find four shot, already dead, one cradling a broken jaw, and another beat up black and blue past the poitn of recognition.

 

He was like a spider.

The young, feasts upon the mothers body to sustain strength in order to live.

The mother blackwidow was dead - well, still bleeding out, but thats besides the point. He still had another whole sarehouse to go through, but that would be easy enough.

With a cold, indifferent expression, Moriarty dropped the gun onto one of the multiple corpses, and nonchalantly walked out the door - onward to build his web.

* * *

He awoke in pain.

He always wakes up in pain.

Mental pain - with failure, the knowledge that  _he woke up dammit,_ light headed from bloodloss, body count of how many were offed by his hand...Physical pain - skin still stretched apart and bleeding, muscles sore and over worked, a deep ache of exhaustion that never left, only embodied in the bags under his eyes...

But this was different. A crick in the neck, face tight with  _was that dried tear tracks?_ , tired, so so tired...He groaned as memories came back to him.  _Last night. Or was it day? Hard to tell time in a godforsaken prison. Cage? Cement box? No...more of a...shed._

Both men had fallen asleep in each others arms, Jim's face burrowed in the curve of Sherlock's neck.  _Why, if anyone told me I would be waking up to fid Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, clinging to me like a childhood teddy bear, I would have disembowled them with a spork and feed them to the crows. Or maybe a lynching. Not enough lynching nowadays-_

"Stop that." His thoughts were interrupted by a sleepy baritone tremble. "Stop thinking. You're waking me up."

Jim took that time to sit back, arms behind him, on the foor. "Well forgive me Sherry - Didn't mean to interrupt your precious beauty sleep." He smirked.

"Why, if anyone told me I would be waking up to find James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, making morning-after wits..." Sherlock left the threat to hang in the air. Jim couldn't help but laugh at the irony -  _We're alike, you and I._

"Mmhhm. Not the only 'morning-after' I'm known for 'Lock." His wink was returned with an eye roll.

"Ah yes, the 'morning-after' body disposal I presume? No, wait - You don't like the dirty work."

"I don't mind the sight of a little blood." The childlike banter fell, the sentence triggering memories of recent. He was still naked, evidence shown to probe his statement true.  _Doesn't mind the sight of blood, the smell of peroxide, the burn of a cigarette, the tears, the scars, the ache, the pain, the razors, the dark nights, the dark thoughts, the dark the dark dark dark dark..._

_It was dark and foreboding. Claustrophobic, suffocating even. No room, barely able to fit. Legs clenched up, knees to face. Painful stretching, neck bending, unmoving walls... He was way too big for to be shoved into a locker, as cliche as these 'bullies' are. No... too big. Time to teach them a lesson._

"I - um - er" Jim tried to catch his stumble, embarrassed and awkward.  _How do people do this? Talk? Chat? Explain? Never had to explain anything before. Am I sorry? Am I guilty? Confused? Drop the subject? How the hell does on follow a night like that?_

His embarrassment was only multiplied with a shiver.  _Naked. Still._ The conversation ended, silence suffocating, only break from the hum of the far-too-white-light above them.

_Light above them._

_On the cieling._

_The cieling they supposedly fell through._

His eyes dropped from the fluorescence, to Sherlocks face, a telepathic message.

"I see it too. Get dressed." Sherlock whispered, tossing Jim his button up and pants neatly folded by the door.

_Folded._

_They weren't folded last night._

The dark eyes were filled with something darker, and, after being dolled back up in his Westwood - James Moriarty came back full swing, foreboding and dangerous.  _No one tricks the Trickster._ He stretched his neck, slowly rolling it around.

Sherlock was about to speak, cupid lips bowed, quieted by the look - more of a glare really - shot in his direction.

 _Walls have ears._ The statement was transposed into body language, a gesture around the room, followed by a shush.

 _Identical down to the detail. Practically the same location._ Sherlocks quick scan around showed inconclusive data.

 _They were prepared. They must know who we are._ Moriarty quirked his eyebrows up, excited by this new twist.  _Daddy does love a challenge._

Sherlocks eye roll acknowledged the excitement, even though the glimmer in his own expression failed to completely disguise the reciprocated feeling. _Focus. Objective_.

  
_Booorrrrrinnngg._ Jim mouthed back with a smirk. His brow furrowed. He mouthed something else to Sherlock, only to be given a confused look in return.

 

With an exasperated sigh, Jim stuck his finger i his mouth, then pulled it out to the sky, as if testing the air. He panted, adding another clue.  _Humidity. Rained recently. New place, new weather._  


 

 

Sherlock sat down crosslegged at the floor, fingers steepling at his chin. Closing his eyes, blocking out one sense, to focus on the other four. James knows this move. Mind Palace, whatever that means. He nonchalantly leaned against the wall, arms folded.

15 minutes could have passed. 15 hours could have passed. The two consultators stayed there, frozen, thinking, planning, decieving. The air was thick with tension, mental power, bypassing their “transportal” needs. Yeah sure, they may not have relieved themselves for days - hell, maybe it was just 2 hours - or eaten anything likewise, but neither cared. Their brain power was shut down as a whistle broke through, sound echoing.

 

_Down a hallway, outside the door._

 

_The itsy-bitsy spider crawled up the waterspout_

The footsteps were closer now, yet seemed even more agonizingly slow. Sherlock couldn’t stand waiting, hated having his patience tested. If they were going to come, they could just come. No need to drawl about and waste more time. Instead, he looked up at Moriarty, still back against the wall. A smile had graced his features, eyes still dark, curious, excited. It was enchanting - the way the fragile broken hurt human who had fallen asleep crying in his arms was the same as the down-right murderous psycho watching the door, with baited breath. Sherlock winced at psycho, remembering the rigid scar of that word down an arm, the blood, and scar tissue, calculating the angles and blades used, the age of the marks, the dominant hand that wielded the weapon…

The whistling had stopped, and a thud resonated across the small shed.

 

Moriarty smirked and pursed his lips, finishing the song with his own whistle, if in a minor key.

 

_How fitting._

 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he finished.

 

There was a knock on the door.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> To be edited  
>  soon. Hopefully.


End file.
